A Dinner
by Sarastro the Queen o the Night
Summary: Italy and Prussia make dinner and kick Germany right out of his comfort zone. One-shot inspired by Mostly Martha. Gift for my good friend Lune.


**A/N:** Whoa...this took me ages to write...WHY HAVE ALL FLUFF IDEAS BEEN TAKEN?

This is a gift for my good friend Lune. So...yeah. Italy's little monologue thing was actually taken from the German movie "Mostly Martha" as there's an Italian guy who talks about Italian football, and I know absolutely nothing about it.

Disclaimer disclaims.

* * *

"He's late," said Germany, looking at the clock on the wall, pacing. Prussia looked up from his book, sighed, and said,

"He's _always_ late."

Germany sat with an irritated noise. "Italians." Prussia merely nodded, and went back to his book. "What are you reading?"

"History book."

"On?"

"Myself." Ludwig put his head in his hands. There was a knock on the door, and the German stood. "That'd be Feli."

"When did you get on such good terms with him?"

"Happened sometime during the second world war, I think," laughed Prussia. But the other saw the heaviness in his blood red eyes. That war was the worst, and they never wanted to have another.

Ludwig opened the door to see Italy, carrying boxes of fresh produce and bags from the KaDeWe. Top floor, Ludwig knew. That was where all the gourmet food was kept-it was special, because all the other department stores kept their food in the basement. It had been the first place Gilbert had wanted to go when the wall fell, too. He hated the food he had been given and made his brother buy him all the food he wanted.

"Hello!" chirped the Italian. "I brought food!"

"I can see. Do you need help?"

"Nope! I just need your kitchen." Italy made his way into the kitchen, Gilbert leaping up, and brushing past his little brother. "Prussia and I will make dinner tonight!"

"But—" started Germany.

"Shoo!" Now he was a little surprised-Italy had never _shooed_ him before. But there he was, being pushed from his own kitchen, the door closing in his face.

* * *

It took a little over an hour, but the two cooks of the evening left the kitchen with big smiles, carrying plates of wonderful food.

"Plates?" offered Germany.

"No," said Feliciano. "It's like camping this way."

"No plates?"

"No plates," said Gilbert with a bright grin. Ludwig followed, a bit bewildered, and thrown for the loop. Sure, he had eaten without plates before (you don't think much about it when it comes to war and you just _need food_) but never in his own home.

And so, it was very odd when they sat down together on the floor in his living room, and he was a little stunned when he was handed a glass of red wine.

"Bon appetite!" and with that, Italy put his fork into the pan of pasta, and Gilbert followed suit. Feliciano just continued to eat, talking about Italian football, and Ludwig ate quietly and a little awkwardly, picking up toasted peppers and asparagus with some sort of glaze on them.

"…It was that traitor, Schnellinger," Feliciano was saying, his mouth full of cucumber and pepper. "He played for Milan, and all Italians call him 'the Traitor' now." Prussia was paying close attention, and Germany was still trying to wrap his mind around the odd way they were eating. By the time he actually accepted it, he found that Feliciano was much further in his narrative. "…Goalie on the left, ball on the right." He picked up one of the peppers, and held it out to Germany. "Try this," he ordered. Ludwig took it and bit into it. "Isn't it good?" He merely nodded.

"What happened next?" asked Prussia, obviously engrossed in the story as he ate the carrots with some sort of glaze on them. Italians and their odd way of making food.

"Prussia actually made it."

"Feli!" Prussia threw a slice of bread at Italy, who laughed. "What happened?"

"Rivera was so happy, he threw himself onto the grass. And my brother and I started shouting, 'Italia! Italia! Italia!'" Prussia laughed, and said,

"West, can you go get a knife?" Ludwig nodded tiredly, and got up, going to the kitchen.

Upon seeing it, he had to stop entirely. It was a mess. Horrible, horrible mess. Hand towels lying across the counters and on chairs, stacks of filthy plates, pots and pans caked in the glazes on the different foods, and…

Oh, he was hyperventilating. That's never a good sign.

"Germany?" asked Italy, suddenly at his side. "Are you okay? Gil! Does he have asthma or something? Allergies!" Prussia merely reached into a drawer, and got out a brown paper bag, opening it and holding it to his little brother's mouth. He took deep breaths into the bag, his eyes still looking around the kitchen, a bit panicked.

"Maybe we should have cleaned up a bit…" said the dissolved state.

* * *

After calming the blond down, the Italian pulled out a game of Pick-Up-Sticks he had brought, and let them fall onto the ground. The three men began to play, two of them laughing at the other's reaction to a dirty kitchen, and the other half-threatening them with bodily harm by the sticks lying on his floor.

"Wait…" said Italy, reaching carefully towards the sticks, picking one up.

"You moved the others!" said Gilbert.

"You did," agreed the blond. Feliciano did a backwards summersault in his frustration, leaving the two Germans laughing. The two went on, and the Italian came back, telling them both that they had moved the others, and eventually, picking them all up and throwing them to the side, turning around and facing away from them, sulking.

* * *

An hour later, Gilbert was asleep on the couch, and Ludwig was finishing cleaning the kitchen. He _really_ needed to have a talk with his brother and his friend before he allowed them to even enter the room again. He placed the last plate of food in the refrigerator, and suddenly, there was Italy, hugging him.

"Thank you for letting me cook," said Italy quietly. Even though Gilbert could only be roused by a mention of war, Canada, or Old Fritz, there was something about being quiet when people were sleeping.

"You're welcome," said Germany equally quietly. "So you went to the KaDeWe."

"Mm-hmm." Italy let him go and sat down on the counter. "And it was hard to get all the food. I don't know much German about food."

"I could help," offered Germany. Italy grinned. He hopped down, and opened the refrigerator, pulling out some food.

"What's refrigerator in German?"

"Kühlschrank. It's easy to remember. Kühl means cool, and schrank means cupboard."

"Huh…what's pasta?"

"It's still pasta, Italy," said Ludwig with a smile, sitting at the kitchen table, Italy sitting across from him, looking at all the food.

"What's cheese?"

"Käse." And so it went, asparagus was Spargel, bread was Brot, strawberries were Erdbeeren, tomatoes were Tomaten, potatoes were Kartoffeln, wine was Wein (not to be confused with Wien), and it was during this session that Italy learned what Germany's favorite food was.

"I thought you liked wurst," said Feliciano, inspecting the object of the German's affections. It was pale, with a little bit of color at the top, a little purple. Otherwise, it was entirely white. The German was blushing, looking away.

"Yes, well, stereotypes have distorted even our own vision," he muttered.

"But…asparagus?"

"Yes, asparagus. We have a time of year called Spärgelzeit, when the asparagus is fresh. You should come then." Italy nodded.

"Why asparagus?"

"Are we not going to let it go?" he sighed. "I like asparagus probably for the same reason you like pasta. Our people."

"I guess. But…asparagus?"

"Can we leave my tastes alone for now?" Italy grinned.

"Why is it white?"

"It's how we grow it here. Underground. When the tops are starting to turn purple, that's when we harvest them." Italy nodded.

"Germany?" he asked after a moment.

"Hmm?" replied the German, halfway through putting away the last of that which Italy pulled out to learn the German names for.

"There's one more thing I want to know how to say in German. Well, two." Germany put away the last plate and sat down across from Italy again. "How do you say your name in German?"

"Deutschland. Don't you know that?"

"Oh…right. I guess I forgot. But I remember now."

"What was the other one?"

"How do you say 'I love you'?" Ludwig stared at him before saying,

"Ich liebe dich."

Italy nodded, stood, and hugged the blond German again saying, "Ich liebe dich, Deutschland." It wasn't perfect pronunciation, in fact it almost made Ludwig want to correct the smaller Italian, but his brain was currently nothing but static. And he sort of wanted that paper bag back…except it was sort of…nice. It was comforting, sort of, to have Italy hug him like that.

It wasn't like when Italy would suddenly appear in his bed, nor was it like the rest of his hugs. It was a bit sweeter.

…He liked it.

* * *

**A/N:** *headdesk* Horrible fluff, bad writer! Bad! Go hide in a corner and bake a heartbreak cake!

Not really sure how well this turned out. And yes, Spaergelzeit _does_ exist. Everyone in Germany goes crazy for asparagus. Figured it would translate. ...Yeah...

Bye! *Runs away to watch BBC Sherlock*

*comes back* By the way, everyone applaud one of the reviewers, Lussia for pointing out my spelling errors in German. For the life of me, I just can't catch German spelling errors. So yays! *applauds*

And now I'm REALLY off! *runs away again*


End file.
